


The Season of Goodwill

by Small_Hobbit



Series: Twelve Days of Christmas plus One [11]
Category: Merry Wives of Windsor - Shakespeare
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-03 14:40:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17285999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Small_Hobbit/pseuds/Small_Hobbit
Summary: Sir John Falstaff believes there is no-one better qualified to benefit from the season of goodwill.





	The Season of Goodwill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Grondfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/gifts).



Sir John Falstaff had decided that what might be termed his slight indiscretions of the summer should by now have been forgotten.  It was, after all, the season of goodwill to all men, and who amongst men was better placed to receive that goodwill that Sir John himself.  Mistress Page and Mistress Ford would surely be delighted to see him.  And give him a Christmas box.

He arrived in Windsor wearing his best tartan cloak.  Admittedly the cloak had seen better days, but the pattern meant the darns weren’t noticeable and Falstaff felt he looked particularly dashing as he swirled the cloak around his face in the manner of a hero as depicted in folk tales.  Falstaff saw himself in the role of Robin Hood, although maybe without the second half of the description, giving to the poor seemed a waste of time when they would only squander the largesse, and he was far more deserving.  The swashbuckling effect of the cloak swirling was slightly spoiled when the smell of mothballs made him sneeze.

Unbeknown to Falstaff, Mistresses Page and Ford had noticed his arrival.

“What’s the old devil after this time?” Mistress Page said.

“Oh, the same as before.  Money and to get his leg over,” Mistress Ford replied.

“You don’t think he’ll try anything on with us, do you?”

“Well, if he does, I’ve had an idea.”

***

Falstaff had sent a polite note to both ladies, individually, wishing them the compliments of the season, and suggesting they might like to invite him for a festive drink, with a few canapés and other such delicacies.  Mistress Page had replied that she would be delighted to invite him over, and she trusted he wouldn’t mind coming at the same time as her good friend Mistress Ford.  Falstaff had written that nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see both dear ladies.

He was slightly surprised when, on his arrival, a servant showed him into the parlour and no-one was waiting to greet him.  Indeed, he felt slighted.  But his good humour was quickly restored on spotting a gaudily wrapped box.  On the label was written, ‘To dear Sir John.  (Not to be opened until Christmas.)’  He rubbed his hands with glee.  There was no-one around, so he’d just sneak a little peek.

Carefully, he unwrapped the box, making sure not to rip any of the paper so he could wrap it up again.  He opened the box and the next thing he knew he had a bloody nose.  He glared at the jack-in-the-box, which came complete with boxing glove, and hurriedly rewrapped the present, trying not to drip too much blood on it.

Just as he was finishing fastening it, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page entered the room.

“Sir John, how lovely to see you,” Mistress Ford said.  “I trust you are well.”

“Berry well, fank you,” Falstaff replied.  He pulled a piece of cloth from his pocket and tried to staunch the blood.

“Excellent,” said Mistress Page.  “Here, have one of these tartlets.  I had them made especially for you.”

Falstaff accepted the tartlet and took a huge bite.  “Aargh!” he said.  “Hot, hot, hot!”

“Oh, don’t you like the seasoning?  I was sure such an epicure as yourself would have would have expected something of this sort.”

Falstaff looked around, trying to find something to drink.  The first thing he saw was a pitcher of dark wine and without stopping to pour it into a goblet took a long draft.  And then spat it out again.

“Oh, Sir John, you found the vinegar,” Mistress Ford said.

Falstaff decided to cut his losses.  “Sorry, must go now,” he muttered.  “Places to be, people to see.”

The two ladies watched as he left the house before collapsing with laughter. 

“You’d think he’d have learnt the first time,” Mistress Ford said.

“No fool like an old fool,” Mistress Page replied.

 


End file.
